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Category: Writing and Poetry
The Morning Rush
Ah, summer mornings in New York City. The garbage smells of dead rats and leftover Chinese food. Yet we gather our stink underground in the same place everyday as if it were our job. New Yorkers always threaten each other with an intimidating silence. I stand unaffected like always, occasionally peeking my head over the thick, bold, textured, yellow line to see if my chariot draws near. As time passes more people pack themselves into the small waiting area, diplomatically managing to avoid human contact at all costs. We look like people waiting in line to ride a rollercoaster at Six Flags; except with suits and briefcases.
I do not notice how people begin to surround me with a sort of uneasiness that would make any grown man feel nervous. See, my beloved Ipod creates a barrier between me and those people out there. So I wait. My foot tapping ever so lightly on the gum darkened concrete. Not to the current track playing, but to the time ticking that I feel like a pulse in my right wrist. I have nowhere to be today.
After an uneventful 10 minutes the train finally comes, grumbling through the hollow stomach of the city to greet my impatience. We all rush through the doors of our silver carriage to find there no seats available. So we stand collectively, supporting each other’s weight to make room for the handful of men who forcefully board the train, robbing us of any inkling of personal space we have left. Funny, how we must bear a stranger’s burden to stand on our own two feet long enough to reach the destination. Personally, I don’t think it’s fair.
Since I can only freely move my eyes, I look around aimlessly. By no means attempting to read the lips of other people, whose voices I will never hear. Not that I care or anything. The big, hefty man in front of me sweats profusely. So I try to shrink myself out of the range of his touch. But to no avail. It makes no sense to get angry at someone when you only knkow the back of his/her head. So I don’t get mad. Uncomfortable? Yes.
I have been riding for two stops now. After the conductor advises us to "stand clear of the closing doors" at the third, everyone in my car seems to progressively get more and more restless. Then it hits me. A putrid scent invades my nostrils. I have nowhere to go. No way to move. Now I’m angry.
For three stops I ride without breathing, wishing I knew who would be so inconsiderate to afflict us with the scent of their disadvantage. I wanted to know, who to blame.
Finally we reach 42nd street. As the excuse me’s and voices wisp past, seats become available. I sit. But like always, "no rest for the weary." Still, I have to fight off the wretched scent that won’t let me be. In between songs I hear the shuffling of feet coming in my direction. I look up as he sits down on the bench next to mine and put a face to the smell. A homeless man. He throws me a glimpse of his dirty smile. I search for the next song on my playlist.
I don’t know how much time has passed. I’ve been through about 6 songs, and half of 3. Suddenly I begin to hear a slow steady paced beep. Uh oh, there must be something wrong with train. I panic. Then I look down at my ipod. I pause it and listen for announcements. It goes dark in my hand. I ran out of battery. Oh well.
I can still smell the presence of that shoeless man, with the matted hair, filthy smile, lame leg, and rotting smell of a last meal in his empty stomach. Doesn’t he have somewhere to be/ somewhere to go? I guess not. Since my world was shut down for repair, I felt vulnerable. As I stowed away my belonging into my purse, the man asked in a beaten up voice, "And your name little one?" I will not hear him.
Strangers on the train do not talk to each other. But after a few more attempts at earning my attention, I recognize a left behind man in the space where a tooth used be, and in the dirt under his fingernails. Since when were the poor less than human?
"Kiara."
"Yes. I recognize the abandonment in your eyes," he says with a hint of conviction, "We speak of girls like you. I knew you’d be down here soon with no place to go. So I waited."
I politely listen for the rest of the ride as he tells tales of his loss. How Katrina stole his entire family, and left him for dead. All at the age of 24. It’s been two years now and he still speaks of being bathed in death. "You can smell it on me little on. It won’t leave me be."
I have to get off at the next stop. So I stand up to exit the train. He continues to mumble beneath his breath. Then he stops, rummages through a torn leather bag, as if he were looking for food scraps. Slowly, he gathered himself to his feet, leaving behind the three plastic bags that hold all he has left. He outstretched a dirty fist by the side of my face, dangling from it a locket, engraved "Daddy Loves His Little Girl." I could see it out of my peripheral vision. The tarnished silver, didn’t take away from the intent of this beautiful piece. I left it behind. Dangling lonesome in mid-air looking for someone to love.
Tears rushed to the bridge of my eyelids and stood there for a while. But even with all the suffering he told me of, I could not bring myself to cry for him. See, this man did not know me as well as he thought he did. I may not have anywhere to be, but I always have somewhere to go. I’m sorry he couldn’t see that.
5:17 PM
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